


Holiday Recess, or: That Time Arthur Had A Very Fast Car and His Revenge

by rapacityinblue



Series: Inception Lawyer AU [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapacityinblue/pseuds/rapacityinblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still AU Lawyer!Fic. Arthur, now working for the State's Attorney, takes advantage of Eames's connections. Eames takes advantage of Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday Recess, or: That Time Arthur Had A Very Fast Car and His Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows [Illegal Representation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/310812).

As Arthur sees it, there is no point in living in Chicago if you can’t, on occasion, drive up Lake Shore Drive in a very fast, very expensive car. If Eames is gripping helplessly and a little too hard at the dashboard as Arthur shifts between the too-narrow lanes and tears around the s-curve at sixty five miles per hour, well. What’s good is a wealthy ex-client who refuses to stay out of your life if you can’t borrow his car and terrify him every once in a while?

It started with a text message. It seems like it always starts with a text message. He’s done everything short of having AT&T block Eames’s number, and there are days when he’s seriously considered it. He just never seems to have the time to make it to the store.

Every time he hears the unholy chime of his text message alert, he reminds himself that he needs to make the damn time. He isn’t, no matter what Eames says, a “stick in the mud,” a “fuddy duddy,” an “old fogey” or, most elegantly, a “dork.” He has friends. He gets phone calls regularly (from his mom, his sister and her husband Yusef, from Ariadne, Dom, and, most inexplicably, Saito, the named partner from the firm he’d left six months ago. He doesn’’t understand that one; every time he tries to phrase a delicate question as to why the man felt the need to call him, he gets some babble about maintaining connections and buying airlines) at any rate, the point is, he has friends. He has a social life. He gets plenty of calls. He does not need a constant stream of nonsense texts to wrack up his phone bill and make him feel validated as a person.

Eames seems to disagree. Eames seems to think that is exactly what Arthur needs to thrive in his life. And so Arthur’s phone is constantly vibrating -- across his bathroom counter in the mornings, when he’s brushing his teeth. In meetings. He leaves the court room only to be greeted by six unread messages.

Every one is some inane, blathering, rambling tirade. _Why is it impossible to get a decent cup of coffee in this city, luv?_ when he’s in chambers with Judge Feinley. _Darling, there’s something simply unnatural about a river that flows backwards,_ during his Friday night traditional drink with Dom and Ariadne. _The orange line smells a bit off, don’t you think?_ when he’s was making a plea bargain, and he almost loses the damn thing because the defense thinks he’s laughing at her.

He’s set his phone on silent, but that only makes things worse. He catches himself checking the phone much too frequently, sometimes minute by minute, just to be sure he hasn’t missed a text. Chicago fall (wind) tumbles into Chicago winter (icy rain and wind) and he begins placing his phone in airplane mode at the start of his day -- but he discoverers that the clock lags when it can’t autosync, and he misses work calls, and in the evenings, when he checks his messages, his inbox is filled and overflowing with the usual drivel.

It’s only after they put the lights up on the buildings that line the Drive that he finds the answer. If he makes a point of speaking with Eames -- calling him every few days, or perhaps going to see him in person -- the texts slow from an avalanche to a reasonable stream of a few every day. Taken one at a time and not all in a lump, the pithy observations are actually kind of funny. More than once, he’s caught himself grinning at the glow of an LCD screen when he’s supposed to be working, or just before he goes to bed.

This time, he knows that he’s due for his biweekly pilgrimage into the loop when he gets a text from Eames that reads, _It’s really not safe to go south of 18th this late at night, is it?_ So Arthur puts his gloves on, then his coat over them, his scarf under his hat, a hood over it all, and trudges out the door to climb the stairs to the red line platform. A transfer and ten stops later, he’s standing in the cream and black lobby of the Wit, slowly warming himself under the cascading crystal chandeliers.

You definitely spend too much time with your former clients when the night concierge at their hotel knows you by sight, he reflects, waving to Cathy as he passes her and waits for an elevator.

He’s almost warm by the time Eames opens the door, but that isn’t enough to restore him to good cheer. As soon as he sees the Brit, he demands, “If you aren’t beaten or robbed or murdered you’d better have a good explanation for hauling me out in this weather.”

“Isn’t it enough to want to see your shining face, darling?” Eames asks cheerfully, opening the door wider, and Arthur takes the implied invitation and pushes past Eames’s broad chest into the luxurious suite.

No point in not representing the man if he can’t take advantage of him and his money, that’s Arthur’s policy. As Eames appears to be in fine condition, he doesn’t need to worry about that any longer. Not that he’d been worried in the first place. “Not really,” he tells Eames flatly.

Eames has the most expensive suite in the hotel, not because one person needs this much space (Arthur should know, he lives in a shoebox) but because he needs the wall space. Most of their trips out have been spent carefully overseeing the transport of Eames’s artwork from the warehouse in South Loop that he’d left Arthur to guard. They’d sold the pieces that were less meaningful to Eames and carefully replaced the stock art of the hotel room (“It’s the creme de la creme of stock art, Arthur, but it’s still stock art”) with the remaining pieces, and Arthur finally feels less like a dragon guarding his secret treasure.

Priceless works of art hang on every wall, but as he always does when he comes here, Arthur bypasses the living room, dining room, and kitchenette and goes straight for the bedroom. The first three are hung with classic impressionist works. Eames has Monet’s _View from Rouelles, Le Havre,_ Onderdonk’s Dawn in the Hills, a Lucy Angeline Bacon that must have cost him a fortune (assuming he’d actually paid for it) and about six different paintings by as many different artists all of girls playing piano, including a Renoir and the Frieseke that Eames had once threatened to steal. Over all, the open layout of the first three rooms comes together in a fetish for rosy-fingered dawn and pink cheeked girls with huge hats and far too much lace on.

The bedroom, though, is more closed off for privacy, and the art there is very different. He has the Whistler Arthur’d first fallen in love with when he’d found Eames’s warehouse: a girl in pink, lounging in the red shadows of her boudoir. There’s another Frieseke, this one entitled _Portrait of a Lady Preparing to Serve Tea,_ but to Arthur, it looks as if she’s using the tea set to hide her face. Although Eames claims only to collect impressionists, there’s an idiosyncratic print by a Japanese photographer, a play on Manet’s _Bar at the Folies-Bergere,_ where the bar maid stands naked and open to the customer’s gaze. That one hadn’t been in Eames’s warehouse -- he’d imported it after his move to Chicago, and hung it above the bed. Arthur had been entranced the first time he’d seen it, and Eames had said, “It’s a bit of a break for me, I know, but I couldn’t resist.”

Arthur likes the artwork in Eames’s bedroom much more. There’s nothing wrong with the classic examples of impressionism he’s hung throughout the suite, but Arthur has always been partial to the bleak and modern outlook that had settled over Europe in the wake of the wars. Lush gardens and little boys swathed in lace don’t move him the way they do Eames.

He tosses his coat on the bed and takes a seat on an ornately plush chair, staring contemplatively at the minibar. As a general rule, he doesn’t drink on weeknights. There is nothing quite as unpleasant as having to appear before a judge hungover. No, regretfully, thirty-two dollar gulp sized bottles of whiskey are not in his future tonight. He should put Eames on a schedule, like a cat, so that it will be more convenient for him. Except he’s never met a cat that doesn’t push your glasses off the bedside table and follow them with a glass of water if you didn’t live by its schedule.

At least this particular cat comes with a big screen TV and pay-per-view movies. “Can you order popcorn from room service?”

“Darling, this is an executive suite. We can order anything from popcorn to caviar and prostitutes.”

“I don’t represent you anymore. If you order us prostitutes I am legally obligated to report you,”  
Arthur snaps.

“You always say that, darling. I’m beginning to think you like me in orange.” But when Eames calls down, all he asks for is popcorn. He stops, placing a hand over the receiver. “Butter, darling?” Arthur gives him a look that should answer the question for him -- does he look like the kind of person who eats fatty foods that leave grease stains on his Dior? “No butter, thanks. Salt and sugar,” Eames relays into the receiver.

“I’m just staying long enough to warm up,” Arthur tells him.

“In that case, the bed is warmer than a chair by the window.”

It’s almost an offer and so it makes perfect sense for Arthur to shift himself into the nest of pillows piled in the middle of the bed. He thinks about pointing out that Eames’s hotel room has two TVs -- the second in the much more platonically located living room -- but instead he toes off his shoes and sticks his stockinged feet under the folded duvet to warm up.

Their popcorn arrives, and there is something to be said for prompt service, at the very least. If you’re going to spend more per night than Arthur pays for an entire month, this is the way to do it.

The suite is decorated in dynamic colors, oranges and reds that pop against the stark modern creams. Arthur prefers a cooler palate, but he can’t argue with the quality of any of the materials used. The pillows and padded headboard are deep and soft, the blankets thick and warm, and that’s why he doesn’t push away when Eames settles onto the bed and slides a very uninvited arm around him.

“The things I have to do to get some time alone with you, Arthur,” Eames murmurs against his ear.

“Shut up and choose a movie, Eames.” He doesn’t flinch away from the touch or try to duck under the arm, using words instead as his last line of defense against Eames’s charm and roving hands. His treacherous body is relaxing into the other man’s embrace, soaking up the warmth of his broad chest and the security of his strong muscles. What the hell -- it’s Christmas.

It isn’t what he’d expect of a night with Eames, he muses, his hand dropping to the bowl between them. It’s more tender than exploitative. Eames has been trying for months. It’s an open secret between them, not really subtle as Eames has tried a hundred different lines to get him into bed -- ending on the very simple, _I want you, Arthur,_ that he’d sent via text almost a month ago, and then gone on to complain about the traffic on Michigan Avenue.

Arthur sent back, _take Wabash instead._

In the end, it seems, it isn’t any contrived come-on that gets him here. And it’s hardly risque, both of them clothed in several layers to stave off the Chicago weather. “The Fantastic Mr. Fox?” he asks as Eames chooses a film and started it playing.

“I like foxes. They always end up on top in their stories.”

“Not in Br’er Rabbit stories,” Arthur points out, but he hides a smile in the pale bedding. It figures that Eames enjoys stories about crafty thieves getting into and out of trouble.

He watches for about an hour, but eventually the soft bedding and the length of his day catches up with him. It’s been a long day -- he’d gone into the Loop, had three arraignments, taken on a new case and met with the client, all before schlepping home and schlepping right back at Eames’s text. He dozes off, tucked against Eames’s side and feeling small and protected, wrapped in his ex-client’s arms.

He can’t have been asleep for very long -- it’s a children’s movie, after all. He wakes to Eames stirring, shifting to dig free the remote and switch off the television. “Sorry, love, did I wake you up?” Eames murmurs. “Need me to tell you how it ended?”

“I’ve read the book,” he assures the other man. “Is it snowing?”

“Started about the time you drifted off.” Eames looks to the double windows that look out over the city. Big, fat flakes float down from the sky, gently, from this perspective, but he knows that on the ground they’d blow with the wind and sting against his face. They’re too big to stick, and they melt away when they hit the pavement twenty stories down from their bed. “It’s beautiful from up here, hmm?” Eames says, echoing his thoughts.

“Yes, it is,” Arthur says.

Sometime in his sleep he’d slumped down against the headboard, and it slowly breaks through his sleep-fuddled mind that he’s more or less resting on Eames’s chest. It’s comfortable, and warm, and there’s snow falling outside, and he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, though he knows he should.

Eames’s fingers trace a paisley pattern over his sweater-clothed arm. “Just think, all that time I put into venn diagrams, when all I needed was a bowl of popcorn and a Roald Dahl movie.”

“Merry Christmas.” Arthur’s going for dry and disdainful but it just comes out goofy.

It would be easy to say that Eames kisses him, but he knows it isn’t that simple. He’s just as responsible, leaning forward in the same breath until their lips met. Eames’s kiss is everything it looks like it should be, his lips soft and sinful against Arthur’s. There are a million reasons this is wrong. He’s been Eames’s lawyer. But it doesn’t feel wrong, the gentle pressure against his lips and the slow press of Eames’s body as the other man shifts toward him. It doesn’t feel wrong at all.

Control isn’t something Arthur gives up easily, and that’s really what his constant struggle with Eames is about. The man is an overwhelming presence in any room, swallowing up the air and threatening to smother Arthur with his attentions. He can’t give himself to Eames for fear that he’ll be pulled down and never surface again.

But the few times in his life that he’s let go, he’s found the release all the sweeter for his normal strict control, and Arthur never does anything halfway. So he lets Eames bear him down against the soft pillows, his body broad and heavy against Arthur’s as they sink into the soft mattress. Eames’s hands work under his sweater, hiking up the fabric of his shirt until his nails graze bare skin, and Arthur can’t help it. He _squirms._ It’s too much to hope Eames hasn’t noticed the motion; he laughs against Arthur’s lips and rocks closer, pinning the smaller man beneath him.

Arthur frees a hand to push under Eame’s shirt, letting his fingers curl against the warmth of his back and rest between his shoulder blades. For a while they simply lie that way, sometimes kissing, sometimes just sharing the space and heat of the embrace. Arthur lets his eyes close, feeling Eames’s breath tickle his nose and cheeks, and smiles against the safety of Eames’s skin. They’re far too close for the other man to see it.

Arthur shifts, his legs falling open in an invitation. Eames slides against him, settling into the cradle of his hips, and the ease of the last few minutes slips away, replaced by need as they come groin to groin. He braces his feet against the satin duvet and raises his hips to Eames’s with a quiet hum, feeling a growing heat and push as the bigger man grew harder against him. It could never be complete surrender, not when he knows he can affect Eames this way, make those strong arms shake as he holds his weight a bare breath from crushing Arthur.

Their lips meet again, and Eames is nowhere near as gentle as he’d been the first time. He coaxes Arthur’s mouth open and his teeth close gently on Arthur’s tongue before he sweeps into Arthur’s mouth, tasting and exploring every corner of him. Arthur’s fingers curl reflexively against Eames’s skin, and he brings his other hand up to strip away the shirt and the undershirt that hides the thief’s skin from him.

At first, when one of Eames’s hands slides behind him, he doesn’t understand, but eventually the gentle pressure of a hand against his shoulders penetrates his lust fogged mind. He pulls away with one more nip to Eames’s kiss-swollen lips and lets the thief guide him up until they’re sitting. Arthur’s knees fall naturally to the outside of Eames’s, and he pushes shamelessly into his lap to reclaim the contact of their lengths together. Eames peels away his clothing in layers, first his sweater, then his tie, then his button-down shirt and the thin tee shirt under it. His hands come back to Arthur’s back and then drop lower, drawing him forward, and Arthur arches to accommodate him, his back bowed and quivering with tension. Eames drops his head to trace around Arthur’s nipples with his tongue, sending Arthur boneless. Eames’ hands support him as he presses his cheek to Eames’s hair. He tries to push himself closer and strip off Eames’s pants all in one motion.

Eames rises up on his knees to help him, and Arthur tumbles backwards into the pillows again. Eames is over him in a heartbeat, his pants and underwear gone with none of the earlier finesse, and his hands scramble at Arthur’s waistband, stripping away his pants and leaving him bare. Arthur arches forward willingly, all modesty gone as he presents himself to his lover.

Eames caresses him with a touch that’s almost reverent, his palms sliding down along Arthur’s hips to cup his ass as he pulls his slender frame up and against him. Arthur tries to push back, hissing, “Come on, come on,” and rocking his body up to Eames’s. Skin against skin, they slide together, uttering the same low moan as their cocks fit together.

“I’ve waited a long time for you, Arthur, we shouldn’t rush it now,” Eames whispers into his ear, pushing down to kiss him again. Arthur squirms to try and speed things up, but Eames only redistributes his weight to press Arthur’s legs apart, and hold his wrists, and keep their pace slow.

It’s excruciating. Eames starts with Arthur’s throat and works his way down with gentle kisses. He blankets Arthur’s throat, his tongue tormenting Arthur’s adam’s apple, presses his lips to the base of Arthur’s neck on one shoulder and sinks his teeth into the same spot on the opposite side. He moves against Arthur with a slow, lazy drag and Arthur’s cock stiffens as he presses to Eames’s thigh, leaving wet smeared against his hip. Eames ignores his obvious need. Instead, he tongues Arthur’s belly button, stretching to hold his wrists to the pillows. Eventually he can’t reach any more and he has to let go, bringing his hands to Arthur’s hips and holding him just as he swallows down the tip of Arthur’s cock.

Arthur threads his fingers into Eames’s hair, gripping the strands hard and trying to push his way past those wonderful lips. It might be selfish, but after the way Eames has tormented him -- over the last six months, in the last six hours, he isn’t really feeling picky at this point -- he needs more. He deserves more. Eames outright laughs and keeps his hips pushed down, teasing him with long, slow licks up the length of his cock before gently sucking it in.

He tortures him that way for what feels like hours, until Arthur’s hands fall to the side and twist in the 600 thread count sheets, until he’s writhing and begging Eames for more. Only then does he feel one lube-slicked finger against his entrance, and it doesn’t matter that he hadn’t seen where the lube came from or when Eames had prepared himself. Eames looks up his body with dark eyes as his mouth tightens, wet and hot, around Arthur’s cock, and the finger sinks deep into him. It curles, and Arthur’s his buck up as Eames finds his prostate on the first try.

It seems, finally, that the Brit needs this as badly as he does -- Eames is thorough but undeniably rushed as he adds a second finger, stretching Arthur out for him, and his fingers shake as he rolls on a condom that appeared as mysteriously as the lube. It hurts, when he first lines up and pushes in -- it’s been a long time since Arthur has done this with anyone, and his body is slow to remember how to relax and take Eames in.

“Okay, love?” He could have handled the stretch and the burn if it had been anyone else, but Eames’s lips brush his temple as he speaks, and they’re closer together than they’ve ever been before, with Eames seated deep inside him and just brushing the spot that he’d found earlier. Arthur closes his eyes against the sudden rise of tears -- not from the pain, just the overwhelming emotion of it all, of this, six months in the making, when it had started with Eames in a jail cell and a jumpsuit harassing him, and he’d never taken the man seriously until he’d somehow managed to upset Arthur’s whole life and restart his career and leave and come back so easily, like he wasn’t dragging Arthur’s heart after him wherever he went.

“Move,” he gasps, his hips shaking as he pushes against Eames. With a torn sob, he adds, “Please.”

Eames understands. He doesn’t push Arthur any further, doesn’t question him, just pressed a kiss right below one of his lover’s eyes. He pulls out and thrusts back in one smooth stroke that wrings a choked cry from Arthur. Together, they set a rhythm to the hard, steady slap of flesh pushing together. Eames claims him, working deeper with every thrust, and somehow they end up wrapped in each other’s arms and kissing, unable to do anything else but rock together and taste as they drive higher.

Arthur feels a tug of satisfaction in his belly when he makes Eames come first. The Brit tenses above him with ragged thrusts as he pushes deeper into Arthur and empties himself. He breaks the kiss to gasp, open-mouthed, against Arthur’s shoulder, and stays deep inside him as he drops a hand between them. He palms Arthur’s length hastily, clumsily, spreading the slickness of precum and his own spit until Arthur can’t help but follow him over the edge. He arches into Eames’s touch and he comes, spilling over the British man’s hand.

Arthur’s world narrows to the tattoos across Eames’s chest, pressing him down to the bed. Strong arms cradle him as they turned to rest their shoulders against the mattress. Slowly, he begins to bring his eyes back into focus, starting with the inky lines that spread over Eames’s heart. He leans forward, kissing the tattoo, smiling against skin when he hears Eames shift and draw in a breath beside him.

The peace of the moment can’t last, of course. Eames’s voice comes to him as a low rumble through his chest as he offers Arthur the use of his shower, and Arthur has no reason to refuse. Eames’s shower, a gigantic walk-in with a glass door and tiled in marble, is much nicer than his own. There are ridiculously soft Turkish towels and bathrobes hung throughout bathroom, and Arthur lays claim to one, wrapping it around his shoulders as he fusses with the faucet until he has the water at the temperature he wants. He hesitates before he climbs in, though -- Eames can’t see him in here, and he takes a moment to hide his nose in the collar of the bathrobe, breathing in the other man’s cologne. Then he shakes it off and steps under the high pressure stream, letting the steam and fog hide his vulnerability.

When he emerges, he finds Eames has left his clothing, neatly folded, on top of the toilet, sparing him the indignity of rooting through the room wrapped in just a towel. He feels a clench in his chest -- disappointment, though why, exactly, he can’t say -- maybe that Eames had stepped out of character to enter the bathroom and hadn’t tried to peek or join him in the shower. But he steps into his clothing and towels roughly through his hair, squaring his shoulders to step out into the bedroom, because he’s never run away before in his life.

As soon as he leaves the steam-clothed safety of the bathroom, his confidence evaporates again. Eames is waiting for him, fully clothed on the edge of the bed, with something that looks like apprehension on his face. Arthur suddenly feels too small and too young. His hair, free of product, falls forward into his eyes and does nothing to help him feel more secure. “Oh, Arthur.” Eames’s voice is fond, and he stands, carefully not touching Arthur except to help him put his coat back on. “Its a long trip back north. Let me give you a ride,” he says, stepping away and sliding his hands into his pocket.

“No,” Arthur says, following his initial instinct without stopping much to think _why,_ but Eames looks so disappointed that on instinct he adds, “Let me drive.”

And that is how they end up on Lake Shore Drive in Eames’s Aston Martin, the top down despite the sub-zero temperatures, tearing around the hair pin turns of the S-Curve while Arthur laughs and the wind stings his eyes, making them water. Eames clings to the hand-hold above the door and actually prays, which Arthur suspects is a very first for him, and he’s white faced and panting by the time Arthur brakes too hard outside his apartment building in Lakeview.

“Out. Out right now. You’re a madman who’s trying to kill me. You are trying to kill me, darling, aren’t you, because if this is just you _au naturel_ , I shudder to think what my life will be when you actually make an effort.” Arthur only laughs, reaching up to brush his hair away from his eyes, and Eames whispers, “Oh, Arthur,” again.

He ends up with his back pressed against the door of the very fast, very expensive car, both of them crushed between the driver’s seat and the steering column. Eames’s hands are tight in his coat, twisting in the wool and slipping between the buttons to touch the cashmere sweater beneath. His own arms go around Eames’s neck and he pulls the thief closer, kissing him until they have to part, gasping for air with their lips damp against each other.

Arthur swallows hard, leaning back to let the cool air clear his senses, slowly letting go of Eames. He’s startled out of the moment by the sudden honking of a car behind them -- of course, they’re double parked and blocking the narrow street. Arthur murmurs a hurried goodbye and scrambles from the car, waving apologetically to the vehicle behind Eames’s and pushing past the door of his apartment building and into the elevator. By the time he reaches his apartment and looks through the single window, the Aston Martin is gone.

* * *

He meets Ariadne for coffee in the morning as they do every morning, and she immediately knows something is different. “Tell me!” she says.

He doesn’t know what exactly there is to say -- doesn’t know how to categorize what had happened between him and Eames the night before, doesn’t know how to explain it to Ariadne, who has made her feelings on his relationship, or whatever it is, with Eames very clear. As it happens, they’re, ‘this relationship is wrong on many levels and you should tell me all the dirty details’. For a moment, he considers doing just that.

He goes instead with, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

And he broods into his coffee until Ariadne rises, smacks him on the back of the head with her newspaper and says, “Fine, Judy Moody. I’ll see you tonight.”

He waits a few minutes longer, looking over the Eberly brief one last time, and his phone buzzes. Unthinking, he reaches for it, and reads, _what you people qualify as morning DJs is absolutely pathetic._ He finishes the day with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Works of art featured in this story:
> 
> Eames's livingroom:  
> [View From Rouelles, Le Havre (Claude Monet)](http://www.monetalia.com/paintings/large/monet-view-from-rouelles.jpg)  
> [Dawn in the Hills (Julian Onderdonk)](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b9/Julian_Onderdonk_\(1882-1922\)_-_Dawn_In_The_Hills_\(1922\).jpg)  
> [Lucy Angeline Bacon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucy_Bacon)  
> [Two Young Girls at a Piano (Auguste Renoir)](http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/renoir/renoir.filles-piano.jpg)  
> [Girl at a Piano (Frederic Cark Frieseke)](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3zpbSbyx_48/Thrx9UbFBRI/AAAAAAAArAc/pv8fR8aOWdo/s1600/Frederick%2BFrieseke%2B%2528American%2Bartist%252C%2B1874-1939%2529%2BGirl%2Bat%2Ba%2BPiano.jpg)
> 
> Eames's bedroom:  
> [Pink and Red - La Petite Mephisto (James Abbot McNeill Whistler)](http://www.tfaoi.com/cm/2cm/2cm579.jpg)  
> [Portrait of a Lady Preparing to Serve Tea (Frederic Carl Frieseke)](http://www.shiawasseearts.org/images/iPortrait_of_a_Lady_Preparing_to_Serve_Tea.jpg)  
> [Daughter of Art History (Theater B) (Yasumasa Morimura)](http://images.artnet.com/artwork_images/424262577/198714.jpg)
> 
> [Arthur's Dior suit](http://uploads.notempire.com/images/uploads/diorHommeGreyPinstripeSuit.jpg)
> 
> And, of course, the car:  
> [Aston Martin DB9 Volante](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e0/Washauto_Aston_Martin_DB9_Volante.jpg)


End file.
